


The Light of Stars, on Crowns they Hung

by Argenteus_Draco



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, hobbit - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, But They Will Definitely Misinterpret Each Other Sometimes, Durin Family, Elves and Dwarves Can Get Along, Encourage Me to Finish This, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Pre-Quest of Erebor, Tauriel Adopted, Young Tauriel, big plans, new names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29982693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argenteus_Draco/pseuds/Argenteus_Draco
Summary: “If any of your kin come to search for you, you must promise to go with them," Frerin tells her. "There is enough bad blood between our peoples, I won’t go to war over you.” Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but Tauriel nods all the same.“I understand,” she answers. “If anyone comes looking, I will go.”Elflings should not be left alone in the world. Even if it means growing up among the Dwarves of Ered Luin. A story of displaced people and their effect on the world.
Relationships: Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding character's ages: For the Dwarves, I've done my best to keep to either the canon established in the films or the canon of Tolkien's writing for each individual character. But I've blended the two within the story in order to introduce some characters earlier instead of creating my own, and setup relationships. Tauriel, obviously, has been aged down, and I've taken some liberties in imagining how immortal beings develop out of childhood.

Tauriel remembers very little of the attack. She remembers being tucked into the safety of a rocky crevice, her father arming her with one of his curving knives, and warning her not to emerge until he returned for her. She remembers the shrieks and screams in a guttural language that she does not understand, and the clashing of swords. She remembers the pounding of heavy footsteps, and the growling and howling of a dozen wargs. She remembers silence as the sun finally rose bloody red, turned orange, turned gold, and she crawled, frightened, clutching her knife in white knuckled hands, out of her hiding place to find the valley littered with the bodies of her kin. She does not remember how long she waited there. All that she remembers clearly is a broad hand on her shoulder, and turning to stare up into a face unlike any she has seen before: kind brown eyes, a long nose that looks as though it may have been broken once some years before, and most notably, a dark beard adorning a strong chin and jaw. The voice it speaks with is gruff, but soft.

  
“Are you hurt, little one?”

  
She looks down at her coat and sees that it is splashed with blood along one side. (There had been blood on her hands and her clothing that day too, she remembers the feel of it, cold and sticky, congealed beneath her fingers.) She shakes her head and smiles at the affectionate nickname. She is a head-and-a-half taller than any of her adoptive family, it has long since ceased to be appropriate.

  
“No,” she answers, returning to the process of scrubbing the gore from her hands and arms. “We caught a stag. Fíli and Kíli took it to the butcher. I asked for the skins. You need a new hood.”

  
There is silence for a minute, and then she hears footsteps as the Dwarf she now thinks of as Father crosses the room to stand beside her. “I know that look,” he says after a long moment peering up into her face. “You dreamed about it again.”

  
“I always dream about it when we go into the woods,” she replies automatically; they’ve had this conversation before. They all have ghosts in their past. She will not let hers keep her from taking hunting trips with her cousins, not when they are still in the grips of winter and they need every bit of game that they can bag. Kíli is a good shot, and Fíli has a mind for the most effective places to lay traps, but she is the best hunter in Ered Luin. No one will go hungry on her watch. She owes these people too much.

  
For once, he chooses not to argue. Instead he says briskly, “Finish cleaning up. Thorin is back. He is calling a meeting tonight.”

  
She stops abruptly and turns to stare at Frerin. “A meeting for what?” Being young (relatively speaking), and not Dwarrow, she is rarely summoned to such events.

  
“I don’t know.” He casts one last disapproving look at the stain on her coat, and adds, “And change that. It’s worn too thin anyway.”

  
“Yes, _ada_ ,” she says reflexively, and then promptly bites her tongue. She knows better. But she calls him _ada_ the way that he calls her little, out of habit and of fondness. Even Dís still sometimes does the same, though never in front of any of the men folk.

  
“You have ten minutes,” he tells her. And then, with a smile of his own pulling at the corners of his mouth: “Little one.”


	2. Prologue

The signs of Orcs are everywhere. From the look of the dried black blood splashed along the tree trunks, Frerin thinks they must have passed this way a day or two before at least, and long since gone. Good news for the caravan they are guarding. Bad news for whoever was caught in their path without a Dwarrow guard.

It isn’t the princely work he imagined for himself, but it’s important.

Frerin motions to his companion. Dwalin is just barely old enough to be out on the road with him, and his anger is barely contained. “D’ya smell that?” he asks Frerin. “The whole valley stinks of Orc. May be we get to crack some heads.”

“If luck is with us, it won’t be necessary,” Frerin replies. “I’m going to scout further down. Stay here. If I find the Orcs, you’ll have to warn the rest of the guard.”

The road is eerily still. Even from around the bend it takes, Frerin can hear Dwalin muttering obscenities about his character and the mental stability of his family. He’s probably right, Frerin muses, as the stench of death gets stronger and he proceeds downhill anyway. There is a stair in addition to the curving switchback meant for horses and carts; more concealed, and easier for him to descend quickly. It lets out between a stand of birch along the road. And there, sprawled in the middle of the dirt track, is a broken and bloody body.

Frerin swallows back bile. He has no great love of Elves, but that doesn’t mean he likes the sight of dead ones.

Taking a breath, he steps out into the road to survey the full extent of the carnage, but before he can take a count, he notices the figure of a girl — a mere child — sitting against the rock face he’s just come down. He approaches her slowly, afraid to spook her, and puts a hand on her shoulder. She turns to peer up at him, green eyes wide and frightened.

“Are you hurt, little one?”

For a long moment, she just stares. Then, slowly, she shakes her head.

In the distance, something shrieks, followed by a long howl. The girl goes stiff under Frerin’s hand. Without thinking, he lifts her up and begins the climb back to the road, taking the steps two at a time.

“Dwalin,” he calls, once he’s within earshot of the other Dwarf. “Alert the rest of the guard! We cannot go through the valley!”

Dwalin sounds the horn that will call the rest of the scouting guards back to the caravan, but waits in the road for Frerin. “Orcs?” he asks, when Frerin comes breathless around the bend.

“Elves,” he answers. “Slaughtered sometime in the night.”

Finally, Dwalin seems to notice that Frerin is holding not weapons, but a child.

“Yavanna’s tits, you have got to be fucking joking,” Dwalin says, “You found one of them still _alive_?”

* * *

They turn the caravan back toward the Greenway. It will add time to their journey, and they have precious little to spare if they wish to reach home before winter, but it is safer. For lack of better options, Frerin makes room for the Elfling to sit in the back of one of the wagons. No one is particularly happy about it. The merchants complain that she will steal their goods and disappear into the night. Frerin scoffs at this at first, but quickly learns that it wouldn’t be so impossible, since Elves (or at least this one) don’t seem to sleep. The guards grumble about having to distribute extra rations for her, even though she barely nibbles on her portion of bread and cheese before wrapping it in her scarf and putting it away for the next day’s breakfast. A few Dwarrow even suggest that if Frerin insists on sheltering the girl, that he turn back and take her east to Rivendell or wherever she came from initially, but they can’t get her to tell them where that might be. In fact, they can’t get her to say anything at all for several days, until night is falling and the distant peaks of the Blue Mountains are just coming into sight. She has clambered up to perch on top of some of the chests of goods, and she peers ahead down the road with more interest than she has shown in anything since joining them.

“You like the mountains, little one?” Frerin asks her, and to his pleasant surprise, she nods emphatically.

“I have never seen so many,” she tells him. “Only Erebor, and only from very far away. I’m called Tauriel.”

Frerin experiences a very different sort of shock at her words, and nearly stumbles into the back of the wagon. “So you’re from the Greenwood?” he asks, once he’s recovered, and she nods again. “Why wouldn’t you say that before?”

“Elflings do not speak to Lords. Unless they are little Lords themselves,” she responds, finally turning around to look at him. “But…” she adds hesitantly, “I think I am learning… here, that is alright?”

“Yes,” Frerin affirms for her. “You may speak if you wish.”

She gives him a bright smile, and settles down again to sit with her legs dangling over the edge of the cart while he tries to imagine a childhood spent in relative silence. It would be impossible among Dwarves.

“Tell me of Erebor?” she asks. Frerin sighs.

“I’m sorry, lass, but those are difficult memories. It’s been a quarter of a century, we’re settled in to our new lives, but most folk still find it hard to talk about.” He gives her an appraising sort of look, and adds, “You probably weren’t even alive when the dragon came. How old are you, anyway?”

She shrugs her shoulders lightly. “I stopped counting. The Record Keeper could tell you the year I was born.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him,” Frerin replies, privately thinking that he wants no more conversation with Elves than is strictly necessary to return Tauriel to her home. Now that he knows she is from the Greenwood, however, he can’t say he has any great desire to return her to Thranduil, either. Looking into her pale, round face, he can’t help but think that the traitor Elvenking does not deserve the charge of something so innocent and pure. Maybe that’s the excuse he’ll use when he has to explain to his family why he’s bringing an Elfling into their home.

As he expected, they do not react well when the time for that comes.

“Please,” Dís implores, when Frerin walks over the threshold carrying Tauriel on his hip, “tell me that you ran into an ex-lover on your trek, and that you didn’t _kidnap_ someone’s _child_.”

Tauriel remains quiet while he explains, adding only that she and her father had been making the journey to the Undying Lands when Frerin had found her. Dís pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. Thorin glowers. Thrain is the least impressed.

“Get a hot meal,” he says, “and a good night’s rest. At dawn, you take her back to her kin.”

“ _Adad_ —”

“At dawn, Frerin.”

Reluctantly, he agrees.

* * *

A fierce blizzard rises up overnight, the first of the season. The resulting whiteout makes travel impossible even to the next house, never mind to the Woodland Realm. By the time it dissipates three days later, the passes are filled with so much snow that the journey must be put off until spring. No one says anything. Dís merely sighs again, and sets about the task of finding proper winter clothing to fit Tauriel’s small frame.

* * *

By the time spring arrives, Frerin has grown too fond of Tauriel to wish to think of taking her back to the Greenwood. Dís is equally distraught over the idea, an emotion she expresses through a thoroughly over-enthusiastic preparation of supplies for their journey, everything from coats and scarves and boots to a hearty supply of the spiced biscuits that Tauriel likes best. Even Thorin has warmed to her somewhat, enough that when the day comes to leave, he offers to accompany his brother at least as far as the end of the mountain roads. He even cracks a bit of a smile when he catches sight of Tauriel standing in the doorway with her arms crossed resolutely over her thin chest, chin stuck out, a frown on her small face.

“I’m not going,” she says firmly, as stubborn as any Dwarrow.

“The Greenwood is your home,” Frerin reminds her, “and I have no right to keep you from it.”

“No,” she replies, shaking her head. “I left the Greenwood with _ada_. We left for a new home. That is what I want.”

“Maybe you would prefer we took you to the harbor,” Thorin suggests. Tauriel’s frown deepens.

“I like it here.”

The brothers exchange a glance, Thorin’s questioning, Frerin’s amused. It’s Thorin who shakes his head and looks away.

“Our father will not like this,” he says, but doesn’t stop Frerin as he gets down on one knee so that he and Tauriel are eye-to-eye.

“It would be easier for you,” he tells her solemnly, “to live among your own kind.”

“But I would be happier here,” she replies, equally serious. “There is too much memory in the forest. I think I would be cold and sad there.”

The gravity that she speaks with unsettles Frerin in moments like this, but he shakes it off and tries to smile at her. “I have no desire to see you sad, little one.” Behind him, Thorin sighs, resigned, and Frerin thinks it’s safe enough to tell her, “You may stay then, if it’s what you truly want. But—” he adds, as Tauriel breaks into a happy smile, “if any of your kin come to search for you, you must promise to go with them. There is enough bad blood between our peoples, I won’t go to war over you.” Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but Tauriel nods all the same.

“I understand,” she answers. “If anyone comes looking, I will go.”

* * *

No one comes. A year passes, and another, and another. Tauriel grows, albeit slowly. When the call to arms reaches Ered Luin, asking for soldiers to join the ranks battling Orcs outside Moria’s gates, she barely looks a day older than the morning Frerin found her. Dís offers to look after her for him, but Frerin declines. Tauriel is his responsibility, and as a leader of their women-folk, Dís has enough of her own. The years of war are long. Thorin comes and goes. When he finally returns with word of victory at Azanulbizar, it is tempered by grief for the loss that they as a family and as a people have suffered. For a while, it is like those first few years after the desolation, everyone in mourning. Frerin wakes one night to find Tauriel out of bed, sitting in the chair that Thrain had favorited, singing softly to herself in the Elvish tongue.

The next day, Frerin does the most brazen thing he’s ever done. He rallies Thorin, Dís, Dwalin, and Dwalin’s brother Balin to help him prepare the Dwarrow of Ered Luin for a feast, and publicly declares to the assembled crowd that he is taking Tauriel into his house as his daughter. Daughters, even adopted — even one so strange as Frerin has found — are always a cause for prolonged celebration, and this one is desperately needed. No one questions him, not even Thorin.

“She should have a proper name,” Dís comments loudly, when she is into her fourth mug of ale.

Frerin makes a face. He’s thought about this many times, but never wanted to take from Tauriel the name she’d been given by her parents. Before he can open his mouth to say as much, however, Tauriel beats him to it.

“I like Frea,” she says, looking around her for approval. Frerin raises an eyebrow at her.

“That’s a fierce name for such a little thing.”

Now it’s Tauriel’s — Frea’s — turn to scrunch up her face in distaste. “I’ll get bigger,” she says primly. “And I’ll learn how to be fierce.”

Thorin actually laughs, the first Frerin has heard him do so since his return. “You’ll have a little warrior on your hands before you know it, brother,” he says, clapping Frerin on the back. “That’s good, lass,” he adds, addressing Frea. “We’ll need young ones like you after losing so many.”

“So it’s a good name?” she asks.

Dís nods. “A very good name. Though I admit, I’d hoped to use it myself, if I have daughters. But that’s a long time coming.”

“Find a husband, first,” Thorin tells her dryly.

Dís shrugs, and pushes the bench back to get to her feet. “Maybe I shall,” she says, and goes to join the dancing that’s begun. A handsome miner catches her eye and offers her an arm as she joins the circle, and Frerin laughs as she takes it and he begins to spin her around the floor. Dís is built like their mother, short even for a Dwarrow, and the miner is nearly too tall. They make a comical pair.

When Dís marries him three years later, Frea is still small enough to be the bearer of golden flowers. When the first of Dís’ sons is born, the girl is just barely tall enough to stand at the counter to do the daily baking that her aunt no longer has the time to do, but she shows a surprising talent for mending that leads to an interest in elegant knot work, and then to talk of a jewelers apprenticeship. By the time that Kíli joins Fíli in the world, Frerin is beginning to wonder if the lads will be big enough to carry Frea around the way that she carries them in a few years time — but then she begins to shoot up like a weed just around the time that Fíli does the same, and unlike her adoptive kin, she keeps on growing until she finally ends up at a full height of nearly six foot two. She is built like all Elves, lean and wiry no matter how many second helpings Dís puts on her plates, and she hides it as best she can under her tunics and coats. She is also graceful and lithe and true to her chosen name, one of the best soldiers in Ered Luin’s guard. Only Fíli can match her with a sword, only Kíli with a bow. The three are inseparable. They remind Frerin very much of Thorin, Dís, and himself.

It is not a bad life, he thinks. But still, when Thorin speaks to him wistfully of what they’ve lost, of wanting more, Frerin cannot help but agree.


	3. One

The hall is full and noisy when they arrive. Frea collects three mugs of ale and carries them to the table that Fíli and Kíli have claimed; no small task, given the size of the crowd, but easier for her because she can hold the mugs well above most of their heads. Frerin, carrying mugs for himself and his sister, has a harder time. Dwarrow stop him every few steps to inquire as to the nature of the meeting called. His cousin Gloin pulls him aside, proudly showing off the new braids his wife has put in his beard. Most of those who came have worn their best clothes, making the trick of not spilling his drinks even more of an achievement. There is a palpable buzz in the air. Sometimes it is only men-folk called to the great hall. Sometimes only Thorin’s closest kin, and trusted brothers-in-arms. To call the whole of Ered Luin together…

“On the way over here,” Fíli says, “I heard someone say that Thorin had been all the way to Ered Nimrais.”

“Funny,” Dís replies, “because he was _supposed_ to be going east to the Iron Hills.”

“Unsettled business with Dain?” Frerin asks, taking a long swig of his ale.

“Still thinks I should remarry.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I thought I made my stance on the matter plain enough.”

Frerin cannot help but tease her. “A wedding feast would explain—“

“Could be ours,” Kíli says, reaching for Frea’s free hand with both of his own, and making a show of going doe-eyed as he peers up at her. “If you would only finally say yes.”

Fíli elbows his brother so hard that some of the foam sloshes over the rim of the mug and onto the table, making Dís scoff and Frerin laugh. Frea, for her part, pretends to be unaffected, but her pointed ears turn pink with flattered embarrassment.

The moment is over quickly. A hush sweeps through the crowd as Thorin finally arrives, closing the door behind him and making his way up to the front of the hall. It’s clear to Frerin from the stance of his shoulders and power of his stride that whatever rumors have been flying, whatever happened to him is stranger still.

“Hail, brother!” Frerin calls, raising his mug in salute. “What news from our cousin Dain?”

“I did not journey to the Iron Hills,” Thorin replies. Ostensibly he is speaking directly to Frerin, but he pitches his voice to reach the entire assembly. “I had a chance meeting on the road that delayed me.”

“A chance meeting?”

“Aye,” Thorin says. “With _Tharkûn_.”

Whispers break out. The Wizard has not often been a guest in Ered Luin, but the reputation that precedes him is one of intrigue and suspicion. Frerin glances around at his family. Dís’ brow is furrowed, perhaps trying to remember their last meeting; she was, after all, very young. Fíli and Kíli, who know of Gandalf only from stories, have a light in their eyes, sensing excitement. Frea looks thoughtful, curious.

“We talked long in Bree,” Thorin continues, accepting a mug from the Dwarrowdam minding the kegs. He acts as though he is discussing the weather, taking a long draw out of the mug before continuing. “He believes — and I agree — it is time to retake the Mountain.”

Thorin knows how to take advantage of the moment of stunned silence that follows. He walks slowly down the center aisle between the benches. Almost unconsciously, those seated draw back to stare up at him; those still standing crane their necks to get a better look at their leader. “The dragon Smaug has not been seen in sixty years. The men of Dale languish in squalor, eking out a living on the edge of the lake. The Elves no longer leave the borders of their forest.” A few curious eyes flick towards Frea, but she ignores them, focused as raptly on Thorin as any of the rest. “A darkness is creeping in from the east, and _Tharkûn_ has allies who would see us return to the Lonely Mountain, the first defense against it!” Frerin draws in a sharp breath, and it seems to echo through the crowd. Briefly, he catches his brother’s eye, sees and feels the fire blazing within him. “The snows have cleared early,” he calls. “The time to go north is now!”

Frerin is on his feet before he knows what he’s doing. Almost as instantly, someone shouts from the back of the room “What you speak of is madness!”

“What I speak of is our legacy! Our birthright!” Thorin looks at his brother again. “Frerin, do you not feel the pull of Erebor’s empty halls?”

“Since the day we fled,” he answers honestly.

Thorin steps close enough to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “This time next year, you could stand in them again, daughter at your side.”

Recognizing the careful play Thorin has made, Frea stands beside Frerin. “I’ve dreamed of walking the mountain halls,” she says, voice soft but nonetheless commanding of the crowd’s attention. “Not three weeks ago. I had not hoped to think it would be fulfilled so soon.”

More whispers ripple through the hall. Though most accepted Frea long ago, there are still some among them who find the vestiges of her Elvish heritage strange and unsettling. From the back of the hall, someone raises their voice enough to ask, “What other portents have been read? We needn’t rely on Elvish magic!” And then there is a clamor as the elders of each family reach into pockets and pouches, casting knucklebones and die, peering at them every which way, and loudly proclaiming what they see.

“Pairs of two! That’s an ill omen!”

“But three pairs! Three is luck for us, ill for the Dragon!”

“Or three deaths!” a ‘dam shrieks, casting fearful eyes around the hall.

Dís scoffs. “This is foolishness. Superstition and dreams. Just because the passes are clear—“

“Thorin!” A hush falls again at the urgency in Gloin’s voice. “Oin’s cast, come and see.”

A step behind his brother, Frerin approaches the table where Oin’s knucklebones sit. He is not well versed in the reading of omens, but the meaning here is immediately clear. Seven bones sit in a near perfect circle around the largest at the center. A grand treasure at the heart of their luckiest number.

“The Arkenstone,” Frerin breathes. “If the Arkenstone could be found…”

“A rallying cry,” Thorin says. “A sign we could unite all of our displaced peoples under.” He looks around the crowd again. “No longer pushed out to the edges of the map. No longer would we have to toil in the realms of Men, looked down upon as mere laborers. The greatest jewel of our greatest kingdom restored, and the dignity of our people with it! Who will go with me?”

Kíli and Fíli are on their feet in the next breath. Together with Frea, they step forward to join Frerin and Thorin. Oin and Gloin rise. Dwalin and Balin. Their distant cousin Nori, and then his brother Dori and Balin’s young apprentice Ori. And…

…that’s all.

The rest of the hall still stares at them in stunned, frightened silence.

* * *

“More will come.”

Frerin believes in his brother’s conviction, but he can see that the others are not convinced. He, Gloin and Balin have stayed; they sit around the head of a table in the now empty hall. It has a different air now, quiet and lit by only a few small lamps. It makes the weight of what they are setting out to do settle all the more ominously.

“It was a good speech. The thing is, Thorin,” Balin tells him, not unsympathetically, “you need a real plan if you’re going to ask folk to follow you back to the Lonely Mountain.”

“And you’re going to need coin,” Gloin adds. “Raising an army doesn’t come cheap. Arms and armor, beasts to carry supplies and warriors, no doubt the Wizard will want pay for his service.”

“ _Tharkûn_ has asked no payment,” Thorin says, “except that he should choose one member of our company. He was cryptic as to why, but what do you expect of Wizards?”

Balin snorts. “Not help, that much is sure.” He glances at Frerin, who had tried to reach the Wizard during the long years of war in Moria without success. “And what of these allies he claims to have? How do we know they don’t look to the Mountain seeking their own profit?”

“They would need to stand atop my dead body to attain it,” Thorin growls. Balin sighs.

“Don’t you see that’s exactly what the rest of us fear?”

“Balin’s right,” Frerin says. “What exactly did you and _Tharkûn_ discuss?”

Behind the table, where only his brother will see it, Thorin makes a gesture in Inglishmek; “ _Private_.” Aloud, he tells Gloin and Balin, “We sent a raven to Dain. I will await his emissaries here, and all he can gather on the way. The rest of you are to set out for the Shire to meet _Tharkûn_ and his burglar.”

“With what?” Gloin asks again? “Naught but the clothes on our back? Even with just us twelve, Thorin—“

“Fifteen.”

All of them turn toward the rear of the hall. The speaker is a hatted Dwarrow in a plain brown coat, the kind of sturdy garb favored by the families long established in the Blue Mountains. He takes a step forward, offering Thorin a bow. “Bofur, at your service. Bit of a shock, this whole announcement. But I’ve talked with Bifur — that’s my cousin, see — and my brother Bombur and — well, Bombur isn’t much of a talker, but we’ve all agreed. Things have been good since you’ve come to these halls, and Erebor sounds a fine adventure. We’re with you.”

Frerin glances at Thorin, who in turn looks briefly to Balin as if to say “I told you so.” Balin, for his part, inclines his head deferentially, the smallest of smiles under his beard, and steps back to talk finer points with Gloin while Thorin strides toward Bofur.

“And we shall be glad to have you, Master Bofur. You and your kin.”

“Besides,” Bofur continues, “you want to talk about omens, that makes fourteen of us. Well, fourteen Dwarves, at any rate,” he adds, looking sheepishly at Frerin. “Can’t ask for better luck than that.”

* * *

Frerin does not feel lucky when he reaches the home he shares with his sister’s family.

“She says we’re not to go!”

“Uncle, make her see reason!”

“You’re all too young!”

“I’m as old as you if not older!”

“By years, maybe, but not in mind!” Dís is practically throwing things around the kitchen while she speaks, slamming mugs, spices, tea, and the kettle onto a table already spread with bread, jam, honey, cheese, cold bacon, and smoked fish. Trust Dís to prepare a small feast in response to any sort of crisis. Frerin takes a quiet step forward as she reaches for the ladle and gently touches her elbow— she spins around, brandishing it like a hammer, until she sees his face. She glowers. He tries a smile.

“And what, exactly, do you plan to do with that, _nana’_?”

Dís deflates, but only slightly. “There’s porridge on.”

Frerin catches Frea’s eye. She takes the cue and begins gathering bowls and spoons. When she extends a hand for the ladle, Dís sighs gently before she hands it over, and lets Frerin guide her to the chair at the head of the table.

“I can’t stop you, I know,” she says, as Fíli pours hot water into a mug for her. “And what you allow your daughter to do is your business, I suppose. But my sons… no.”

“ _Amad_ —”

Frerin puts a hand up, silencing Kíli. “It is time, Dís.”

“Not for them. They’re just lads. Anxious as I am to see Erebor again, we will join you when you retake the mountain.”

Frerin waits until Frea has set the last bowl on the table and taken her own chair before he says, “We’ll need them for that, Dís. We’ll need every able hand.” He swallows a spoonful of porridge, looks up and meets his sister’s incredulous stare. “We could use yours as well, if you care to take up arms.”

Dís’ jaw hangs open for a moment. “You can’t mean… Frerin, you can’t mean to tell me you and Thorin intend to do this with just the dozen of you.”

“We’ve had some more,” Frerin tells her, glossing over the exact number. “And word has already been sent out to Dain.”

“And how long do you expect that to take?”

Frerin shrugs. “Dain at least is closer to the Mountain. But we will need to set out soon.” He looks around at each of them, making sure he meets first his nephews’ and then his daughter’s eyes in turn. “I won’t try to talk you out of what you’ve volunteered for. But I need to know that you all understand exactly what is being asked of you. This will be a long and hard journey. It will be many months out in the wilds. I do not know what or who we might meet along the way. No matter the road Thorin chooses, it will mean crossing larger mountains than you have ever known.” He pauses for a moment, holding Frea’s gaze. “It will mean passing through the Greenwood, where we will be enemies in a foreign land. There will no doubt be dangers we have not yet considered. But beyond that, it will mean going home.”

He looks at each of them again. Kíli meets his gaze fiercely, but he is absentmindedly shredding the wedge of cheese on his plate into crumbles. Fíli is staring down into his tea as if he might find answers in the cream he’s stirring into it. Frea alone sits still as stone in her chair. When she speaks, her voice is determined.

“I have made the journey over the Misty Mountains once,” she says softly. “I was not prepared then. But I believe I am ready now. I will go with you, _ada_.” She raises her right hand and holds it gently over her heart for a moment, a gesture of her childhood that Frerin understands to mean respect. When she places it down on the table again, Kíli puts his own atop it.

“I’m with you, too. I know you think I’m reckless,” he adds, turning to his mother, “but I have dreamed of nothing else for my whole life. I want to be there when Erebor is reclaimed.” He hesitates a moment; then, with the barest hint of hopefulness in his voice, adds, “ _Amad_?”

“My heart will be with you,” Dís tells them, her voice heavy, “but my place is here.”

Frerin looks to Fíli. “Lad? No one will think of less of you should you choose to stay. The folk here will still need a leader.”

Fíli snorts abruptly. “Talk about things I’m not ready for.” He is silent for another moment before he looks up, eyes shining. “I won’t say I’m not frightened by what may lie ahead. But I feel the call of the Mountain. I will go.”

Frerin nods solemnly. “Then we’ll take this time together as a family. Tomorrow we start our preparations. I want to be ready to leave within the week.” He pushes the honey pot across the table toward Frea, knowing she eats almost nothing without it. “Go on. You won’t get many more meals like this for a while.”

It is another hour before Thorin finally arrives home. Automatically, Frea gets up to retrieve the extra chair from the kitchen, Kíli goes for place settings, and Fíli for the shelf where Thorin keeps his pipe. While they are up, Frerin catches his brother’s eye, and signs _“What news?”_

Thorin looks to each of his siblings before quickly signing back, “ _Tharkûn seeks Thain.”_


End file.
